


The Country Of Your Skin

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-10
Updated: 2007-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon drives until he gets bored, which is when he takes an off ramp and stops by a Subway for subs, and then a McDonalds for supersize strawberry milkshakes. Then he pulls into the parking lot and tells the others “Okay, I’m over the driving thing. I’m going to nap. Someone else step up.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Country Of Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Set circa 2004 and thus featuring Fall Out Boy in all of their hot-tub-dwelling glory.

**i. **

Brendon drives until he gets bored, which is when he takes an off ramp and stops by a Subway for subs, and then a McDonalds for supersize strawberry milkshakes. Then he pulls into the parking lot and tells the others "Okay, I'm over the driving thing. I'm going to nap. Someone else step up."

It's his van, every shiny purple inch of it (or, okay, his mom's, but that's not the point), but unlike some people - say, _Ross_ \- he's not scarily possessive of his ride.

"I'm still shotgun," Ryan says firmly, sucking on his straw. Brendon is so lucky that Ryan can be bribed with milkshake, or there'd be no off-highway field trips without a whole lot more arguing.

"Okay, whatever. I'm backseat, though. Brent?"

"He's asleep," Ryan said, twisting back. "Brent, wake the fuck up, you're driving."

Brent proves quite amenable to taking the wheel, once he's woken up enough to comprehend, so Brendon ends up in the backseat with Spencer.

Spencer raises his eyebrows at him as he clambers in, slouching back against the seat.

"Here," Brendon mumbles, shoving a milkshake at him.

"Thanks, Brendon." Spencer smiles at him, a rare sweet smile that Brendon's not really used to yet, because it still makes his breath stutter. Which is maybe a little weird, but then despite the fact that they're actually driving to _Los Angeles_ to hang out with _Fall Out Boy_, jesus, he hasn't known Spencer all that long in the grand scheme of things. Spencer's the hardest person, out of any of them, to really get to know. It's the way he looks at him, sometimes; cool, distant, considering, like Brendon's still the unknown quantity Brent brought along to practice, and Spencer doesn't know yet whether he's going to be useful or not.

"It's cool," he says, then kicks Ryan's seat and calls out "Are we there yet?" because that's inalienable backseat privilege on road trips.

Spencer's still watching him from under his hair, although he looks away when the car swerves warningly across the median strip, and Ryan, the quintessential backseat driver, starts to bark out orders.

 

**ii.**

Somewhere on the way, he must have fallen asleep against Spencer's shoulder (Spencer, of all people); he wakes up disoriented, neck stiff and the side of his mouth like wet rubber. To his horror, he can make out a faint damp patch on Spencer's pastel-blue t-shirt.

He's somewhat surprised that he's lived to wake up, and that Spencer hasn't clandestinely killed and eaten him. Ryan is slumped against the window in the seat in front, headphones on, and Brent's driving; they're both distracted, he totally _could_ have.

"Hey," Spencer says quietly.

Brendon blinks at him. "Hey. I - where are we?"

"Just past the border."

" - the fuck? Has Brent been stopping off at every station on the way? How the hell -"

"You're way too gullible when you've just woken up." Spencer sounds amused. "We're just about to pull off the I-15, actually, we should be there soon."

It isn't that long after that they get off the highway ("Is that the exit?" "_Yes_, it's the fucking exit." "Just, you have to be sure-") and hit L.A. itself. The traffic is fucking crazy.

"This is it," Brent says, squinting at the printout from Google Maps. " - I think."

Spencer taps his fingers against the car window. "Are you sure -"

"No, he's right," Ryan puts in, "I think it's up there, on the left. Pete was telling me about it on the phone, and that looks right."

Pete is actually standing outside the apartments, waiting, huge dark sunglasses perched on his nose and concealing any expression. They don't recognise him until they're quite close, and then Spencer breathes in sharp, right by Brendon's ear.

Brendon still gets that little rush of _wow_; it's only been a month nearly since Pete contacted them, came down and bought tacos for him and Ryan. A month, and they're in L.A. to hang out with _Fall Out Boy_, and Brendon gets to sing on their _album_, and _Pete Wentz_ is opening the car doors for them solicitously.

Ryan gets out, doing that thing where he shakes his head so that his bangs cover his eyes, then looks out shyly through them. He probably practices in front of the mirror. Brent's shoulders are hunched. Spencer looks cool and assured, of course (Brendon envies him that), and he says "Hi" diffidently.

Pete claps them each of them on the back, his black eyes sparkling. "Well, come on," he says, stepping back to stare at all of them standing there tongue-tied, "say something, guys. You're not still shy, are you?" He cuts a sly look at Ryan. "I thought you had solid titanium balls, Ross, after that whole shit-talking my band thing."

Ryan's ears turn red and he mumbles (Brendon can barely hear him) about _that's not what I meant to do, I was just trying to get your attention._ Pete says, "Pulling pigtails?", smirking.

Ryan looks like he wants to sink through the floor, so Brendon chimes in helpfully "Oh, no, you're like, totally Ryan's hero, man. Promise. Like, he has t-shirts. And posters, posters on his _walls_."

"Really." Pete drawls the word out slowly, and Ryan shoots Brendon a look that promises bloody dismemberment (it's amazing what he can convey with a thinning of lip and a narrowing of eye). Spencer's eyes are equally hard. They're like the creepy Grudge twins; offend one, offend the other.

"What?" Brendon asks, wide-eyed. "I was _helping_!"

Pete laughs and lets go of Ryan's shoulder in order to reach over and ruffle Brendon's hair. "You're cute, kid."

Ryan's glare apparently comes complete with laser setting.

 

**iii.**

"Oh," Patrick says mildly, pushing his glasses up his nose a little, "these are the ki- I mean, the band?"

"Aren't they cute?" Pete asks. "I think I want one, Patrick. I'll clean up after it and feed it and walk it and everything."

Patrick rolls his eyes up to heaven. "_Pete._ Pleased to meet you," he tells them.

Brendon nods back emphatically.

Ryan croaks hello.

Spencer says 'Hi,' coolly, in his careful voice.

Brent stares at his feet.

"Spoilsport," Pete sighs. "Anyway, you've heard some of Brendon's range, but like, I thought you might want to run him through it, and tell him how you want him to sound -"

"Let your protégés sit down, Pete," Patrick sounds exasperated. "You guys want something to drink?"

(It was slightly better than Joe's reaction. Joe was tall and cool and they met him coming in; Pete nodded to him and he nodded back, and Brendon didn't even realise that he was part of the band until he looked over at Ryan, who was looking studiously cool and brittle, and was holding his head funny again.

"Whoa," Joe had said, stopping. "These are them? They're so little." He'd looked them up and down; Brent was turning a mottled brick-red.

"Shut up, dude," Pete said, laughing, "when you were their age you'd been touring for a year or two and I'd even stopped stealing your underwear."

"Hey, I was never _that_ green."

"Whatever, I beg to differ," Pete scoffed, and Joe had laughed and said "Okay, okay, hi. I've been hearing great things about you guys," and he'd flashed them a thumbs up. Brendon decided then and there that he liked Joe anyway, for being _tall_ and _cool_ and _chill_, but Ryan and Spencer were still bristling even after Joe had disappeared to wherever he'd been going.)

"Huh, it is kinda late, isn't it," Pete says, squinting. "Was the traffic brutal, or something?

"Yeah," Ryan says, "yeah, but I mean, you're not really going to get here from Vegas any faster -"

"Chill, it's cool. You're totally right. I was just thinking eats, that's all. Have you guys eaten? Because I'm going to call for pizza for those of us who appreciate the wholesome goodness of melted cheese, and those of you that don't can go see Andy, because he's going to get special vegan take-out, and you might wanna get in on that deal."

Pete doesn't seem that surprised when they all (vociferously) opt for pizza, and just hits speed dial on his phone.

The apartment is pretty cool, for something paid for by a studio, but then Fall Out Boy have Island behind them already, waiting to take them on. There are two bedrooms and a narrow bunkroom that's basically the blind end of a hallway lined with bunks ("for our honoured guests," Pete said, making a generous, swooping gesture, "this is where you're staying tonight, we do things in style."). The main room has a dinky little kitchenette but a really, really sweet tv and Playstation. There are has print-outs all over the benchtop; paper cups, discarded plates and old styrofoam containers.

Patrick sits on the couch, laptop on his knees and headphones on, while Pete gives them the grand tour and says silly things ("this is where Patrick brushes his pearly little teeth until they shine, and see this dent in the wall? He totally threw a shoe at me,") while Patrick can't hear him, although he keeps one eye on him the whole time.

" - and _this_," Pete says grandly, pushing open the double doors that Brendon had assumed to lead to a balcony or something, "through here, _this_ is our hot tub. This, kids, is where all the magic happens."

When the food comes, Andy emerges from the depths of one of the bedrooms. Brendon is totally taller than him, which is kind of awesome, but he has these amazing tattoos in brilliant shades of ink, twisting and curving lines. He's old, too, way older than Joe.

Pete raises a slice of pizza in his general direction. "Hi, Andy. Put your shirt on, dude, I don't want you scaring my little acolytes."

"I don't think you should call them your acolytes," Andy says mildly. "Like, at least not to their faces."

"Whatever. You guys don't mind, right?"

They shake their heads _no_. For some reason, it makes the other guys start to laugh, but it's not a nasty sort of laughter. Ryan finds a place on the carpet near Pete, and as the pizza starts to disappear, slice by slice, they start talking, low. Brent keeps his eyes on his food, occasionally saying something to Spencer, who's sitting right beside him, tucked in tight between him and Brendon, and sometimes even to Andy and Joe.

"After the pizza, we're going to hang out in the tub," Pete tells them all. "You can totally just strip down to your underwear, that's cool."

"_This_ is pretty cool," Brendon tells Spencer in what he fondly imagines is a whisper. Spencer nudges him in the ribs, but catches his eyes and nods. It _is_ pretty cool.

Patrick's a pretty quiet guy; _like Brent_, Brendon thinks, until he starts to ask him about tomorrow in the studio, and Patrick leans in, his eyes brightening.

"Yeah, we've laid most of the guitar parts already, and Andy's going to lay down the drum track for it on Sunday. We're still working on the vocals, and that's where we're going to get you to sing a line. Pete said, uh, you sound kinda similar to me, but not, so that's really good, I can make that work -"

Patrick, Brendon discovers, really knows his shit when it comes to music. It's like chord progressions and piano sonatas - Patrick shows a flattering interest in Brendon's piano training - are the magic switch that make Patrick come to life and animation. It's just. It's really cool to talk to someone about music like this, almost better than writing with Ryan (but not quite), and talking to Patrick, Brendon feels for a moment like he really _gets_ it, why they're doing this, why it's worth the disapproval of his parents.

He blinks, hard, and then looks over to see Spencer's eyes on him, watching.

"What, dude?"

"Nothing," Spencer says, brushing a lick of hair back from his forehead, and then he says nothing else, so Brendon turns back to Patrick.

"So, this song, um. Atavan Halen? What's it about?"

Ryan makes a noise like a stepped-on cat. Patrick sighs. Pete says brightly, "Okay, let's get wet and wild."

 

**iv. **

The hot tub is also, unsurprisingly, awesome. If Brendon had one of his own, he'd stay in until his fingers and toes were soft and puckered, and no one, but no one, would be able to get him out.

He tells Ryan this, and Ryan blinks at him and says flatly "But then you wouldn't be able to front our gigs."

"What? We've barely had any gigs yet, what. That's not even important, Ryan! Think of an eternal pool party. _Eternal._"

Ryan sighs heavily. Brendon does, too, because Ryan is clearly not a man of vision, like Brendon.

Brent doesn't seem to get it, either, wedged uncomfortably between Ryan and Andy, but Brendon didn't really expect him to.

"You're a moron," Spencer tells him, but Pete laughs and says "No, I think you're onto something, dude. You can do everything you need to from a hot tub, right? You can do all sorts of important things in the tub."

"So how old are you guys?" Andy asks suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Eighteen," Ryan says, a little defensively. "I'm at college."

"Seventeen," Brent puts in, "high school," and Brendon nods. "Yup, me too. Spencer, too."

Joe coughs something that sounds like 'jailbait' loudly, and Andy looks over at Pete. "We're in a hot tub in our underwear with a bunch of high school kids?"

Pete flashes his teeth. "Nice and incriminating."

Joe says, "More importantly, who wants a beer? I think I need one."

"I don't drink," Spencer says from Brendon's right. It's cramped enough that Spencer is practically in his lap, and Ryan's elbow is digging into his other side. Ryan shakes his head, too.

"Brendon?"

"He's Mormon," Ryan says, "so no alcohol or caffeine or -"

"I'm not," Brendon interrupts. He doesn't mean to say it, at least not like that, rushed and urgent and flat, but it's out of his mouth before he really thinks about it. It's the first time he's said it, and despite all the R-rated movies and stealth cans of soda, despite looking at his parents and thinking _I'm not like you,_ it feels like a lie. "Not anymore, I - Do I get a beer?"

Spencer is looking at him, so close that his breath is warm against Brendon's cheek. Brent and Ryan probably are, too, but Brendon resolutely doesn't look at them.

"Sure," Joe says easily.

"Corrupting minors, isn't that supposed to be Pete's gig?" Andy asks.

Pete turns his head and tilts his sunglasses down. "Shut up, that was _love._"

 

**v.**

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, anyway, but it turns out that beer tastes kind of gross. He wasn't really expecting that. People make such a big deal about it, you'd think it was pure gold and tasted like sweet ambrosia. It tastes sour and a little flat, and every time he gingerly takes a sip he knows Spencer's watching him, weighing him up.

Most of the time he looks up to meet Spencer's gaze head-on, although it's an unequal competition. Spencer's eyes are made for staring; it's difficult to win a staring competition against their pale, steady glare.

Tomorrow, he'll swear on the sacred memory of his great-grandmother that it wasn't him who started the waterfight, that it was totally Pete, or maybe Joe (and in fairness to Brendon, neither of them deny the charge), but the fact remains that it's relatively contained, right up until Brendon sweeps his arm sharply, purposefully across the surface and sends a tall wave of water sailing across the tub.

It breaks slap across Spencer's face, and Brendon's laughing with everyone else, because it's funny, the way Andy shakes the water out of his hair like a wet dog, the way Pete takes his sunglasses off to examine the splatters on them, right up until he actually looks properly at Spencer's _face,_ set and still under the water dripping down from his soaked hair, and then. Then he feels kind of like an asshole, actually.

"Uh." Somehow he's already finished his second can of beer, and he has no idea how that happened. He sets it carefully on the edge of the tub.

"Brendon, the _fuck,_" Ryan says, but not too loudly, since Pete's chortling and splashing Joe, who is returning the volley with interest.

"It's _okay_," Spencer tells him, but he doesn't say anything to Brendon, or look at him again.

For the next while, it's Brendon's turn to watch him for once; he shouldn't, he doesn't know why he is. Guilty conscience, maybe. He's not quite used to the soft curve of Spencer's cheek turned away from him, the smooth curving lines of neck and shoulder, fair and pale, the long hair straggled with water tucked behind his ears and clinging to his neck. He watches Spencer for the rest of the night, when he's not talking, and he watches Spencer shiver slightly, repeatedly. Brendon doesn't know if it's because he's watching him, or because it's December and the sun's gone down, and the water may be warm but there's a chill on the air.

"I think I'm going to get out now," Spencer says later, mostly to Ryan, when Brendon is totally about to whip Joe's ass at peaknuckle.

"Oh," he says. "Wait up, I'm going to get out too, dude, just a second. I think my feet have dissolved."

Spencer sighs, but stands there waiting for him to clamber out, one hip cocked. Something's definitely happened to Brendon's feet, because they're all clumsy. Maybe his brilliant eternal hot tub plan was never going to be a winner.

"For fuck's sake," Spencer says, watching, but he helps Brendon up and into the apartment, and his mouth even twitches when Brendon's knees start being stupid, too.

"You're _such_ a dick, Urie." He pushes Brendon into the bunkroom. There's not really enough room for them to stand comfortably in the narrow aisle between the edge of the bunks and the wall.

"I was a dick," Brendon agrees. He's usually pretty voluble about apologising when he feels guilty; even when he doesn't really know why, because getting splashed in the hot tub is not a _thing_. It's not that itself that he's apologising for, but the weird hard look on Spencer's face, the way that made him feel. "I'm sorry I got you wet," he says sincerely, because he doesn't know how to explain the rest of it; then it strikes him as extremely funny, so he presses his face into Spencer's shoulder and laughs. "Got you _wet_, get it?"

"No," Spencer says, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Brendon." He can practically hear the eye roll, but Spencer's arm is still firm around his torso, holding him up. "You're all subtle like that."

"Shut up. I'm totally subtle, I just - I got you wet, how is that not funny?"

"Yeah, whatever." Spencer's bending down to fumble in his backpack for a shirt, and the 'whatever' comes out muffled in cotton. His stomach is soft like a girl's, not all harsh angled hipbones like Ryan's, and the skin is fair as cream, soft and pale and unmarked, not even by the tiny golden freckles that cluster over the bridge of his nose and across the back of his shoulders.

Brendon's not sure why he does it; it's just a random impulse, natural as scratching your leg when it itches or squinting when the sun's bright in your eyes. He reaches out and touches Spencer lightly, just over his ribs. He feels slightly cool; clammy from the water, not quite fully dried on his skin - but soft, definitely.

Spencer swats his hand away irritably, so Brendon pokes him in the stomach; the look Spencer gives him is one part withering disdain and another part something odd, that Brendon doesn't recognise. "Don't do that," he says calmly, in his 'Brendon, both hands on the wheel' voice. "Your hands are cold, dickhead."

There's water still trickling cold down the back of his neck, and he probably shouldn't have let Joe give him that beer, _really_ shouldn't. That thought has nothing to do with the way Ryan cut his eyes at him, something hard about the line of his mouth, and much more to do with the sick hot-cold swirl at the bottom of his stomach, the way he has goosebumps and it's not even that fucking _cold_; and Spencer's still looking at him weirdly, but not the way Ryan did, like he was too annoyed even to begin arguing.

"Fingers of _death_," Brendon says instead, and trails his frozen fingers of death over Spencer's stomach to make him gasp, then splays his hand out flat just above his navel. He can almost feel the beat of the artery running down between Spencer's ribs, pressing in a faint butterfly pulse against his palm.

"_Brendon,_" Spencer says, short and sharp, and Brendon can't remember ever getting that kind of tone from him before.

"I'm still cold," Brendon tells him, like that's supposed to make any sense, and Spencer's still _looking_ at him - and then he's kind of all up in his space, which is - weird, because Spencer is a big fan of personal boundaries and is thus, like, the world's least physically demonstrative person (except maybe Brent; there's always the Brent Exception) even with Ryan, who he's supposed to have known since they were in kindergarten or something. Brendon saw Spencer put his arm around Ryan, once. It was pretty epic.

"Yeah, it's fucking freezing," Spencer agrees, way too close and sounding breathless and - oh. What?

"What?" Brendon asks, because Spencer is _kissing his neck._

Something like that. There's tongue, anyway; liquid heat under his jaw. He closes his eyes for the ninety-ninth fraction of a second, strangeness shivering up and down his skin, flashing like fluoro against his eyelids (Spencer's mouth wet and open against his throat), then says "what?" again, louder, and "Spencer, what the fuck?"

"What?" Spencer echoes, pulling away, and Brendon can think a little bit more clearly now. A little bit.

"My _neck_," he says stupidly.

"I _know_," Spencer says, in his best and patented _you are an idiot_ voice (Brendon's very familiar with that particular tone) and his hand slides over the small of Brendon's back and settles into place. That's a move. Brendon knows moves when he sees them (feels them), and _that is a move._

"Spencer Smith," he says, half laughing (his tongue is thick in his mouth, and this is funny, it is), "What. What."

"You really aren't subtle," Spencer says, the corners of his mouth dented deep with amusement, like he's mirroring Brendon's current insane need to laugh right back at him. "So don't pretend to be surprised, I'm not buying it."

"Um," Brendon manages, and he's about to segue into another round of 'what. What. What." when Spencer leans right in and kisses him hot and slow, his hand still anchored on his back. Spencer kisses almost lazily, and the touch of his mouth carries with it some sort of bizarre quality that makes Brendon's lips feel bare all over. It's not. It's not _bad_; and then there's a hint of Spencer's tongue, shocking. Brendon can feel it to his toes, and he goes completely still.

"Um," he says, muffled, only it comes more like _oh_, soft and breathless, surprised, "- _oh._"

Apparently he's subtler than he even gives himself credit for.

They breathe together for a little, not quite pulling apart nor kissing. Spencer knocks his forehead against his, in enquiry. This is the moment where Brendon is supposed to say, _dude, I think you have the wrong idea,_ or _dude, I'm not -_ Instead, he shuts his eyes and lets Spencer kiss him again, properly; wet and slick and polished, not at all like how he might have thought Spencer would kiss.

Spencer has _moves_. Moves he is using on _him_, and that is such a fucking weird thought, it really is, but that doesn't stop him from grabbing Spencer's shoulders (Spencer has nice shoulders, Brendon's always thought so, nice shoulders and pretty eyes - only apparently he didn't really _think_) and kissing back, maybe, a little (a lot).

"Mmm," Spencer says, and "God," Brendon pants back, when Spencer's hands slide down his lower back.

"This is so fucked up," he says, and licks Spencer's bottom lip. "Don't get me wrong, I mean. It's awesome. It's just - fucked up."

Spencer pushes him back onto the bunk, and crawls in on top of him. Brendon thinks about telling him that he's not that kind of girl, because he remembers that line from one of the R-rated movies, but then Spencer starts sucking at his neck again and Brendon is _totally_ that kind of girl, maybe.

It's such a cramped space that Spencer keeps catching the back of his head and shoulders on the wooden slats of the bunk above. He swears every time, low and muffled, against Brendon's lips, his neck, his stomach, but he doesn't stop or roll out.

"Back up here," Brendon says, tugging on his hair, and Spencer looks up at him, raising an eyebrow, and Brendon really isn't in the mood for teasing, not now. "_Back_," he says, and Spencer slides back up, pressing himself flat over him, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled. It's more intimate than Spencer's tongue sliding inside his mouth that first time, even though they've stopped kissing, are just breathing roughly. They're still in just their damp underwear from before, and it's both hot and cold - bloodwarm where their skin is stuck together, all damp clammy body heat, and cold, because they're still wet, hair and underwear, and every bare place that Spencer's not touching him is shivering.

"Fuck," he says, pressing closer, hips shifting, and he has the weird, inside-out experience of getting watch Spencer's face change, watch him bite his lip. His eyes are this really fucking pretty shape, even when he screws them shut; all that watching, and Brendon didn't really notice - or if he did, he didn't let that sink in somehow.

"Fuck," Spencer echoes, and then he does this thing with his hips, rolling them down against Brendon's, and it's better than he thought beer would taste, it's better than jerking off, it's fucking awesome, and he rocks back, seeking it out again. Spencer repeats the wavy hip thing, mirroring him, and then he's kissing him again, not properly, not neatly, but open-mouthed against his jaw, and Brendon's going to come just like this, he totally is, _soon_, and the longer it goes on, Spencer's dick hard against his own, between their own wet boxers, the more certain Brendon is.

Spencer's trying to be quiet, and Brendon is, too, because the others might still be out on the patio but there's no lock on the door and these guys hold their future and they're _fucking_ in their _apartment_ \- this is really stupid, but there's also no way in hell he's going to stop.

"This is so stupid," he breathes against Spencer's ear, and Spencer moans quietly back.

And then - he's gone, scrambling off him and out of the bunk. Brendon lies there stupidly for a second, flinching at the sudden cold, then sits up. His head hits the top of the bunk, and he says "Fucking _ow_ \- Spencer?"

"Yeah?" Spencer's kneeling down in the cramped aisle, and he reaches out and shakes Brendon's knee. "Come on, swing your legs over the side, there'll be less mess this way."

Brendon does so, and then he and Spencer struggle in a brief but fierce attempt to pull off his boxers, still wringing wet, in the cramped and awkward space; all knocking elbows and clumsy fingers, until _finally_, they're down. Then Spencer leans forward and, and -

"Oh my god, please - please do that _forever_, Spencer Smith," he manages finally, when he can think enough to put together a sentence that doesn't make him sound like a total idiot, if he ever can, with Spencer on his knees in front of him, _sucking_ his _dick._

Spencer's hair is wet and clinging to his skull, and Brendon doesn't run his fingers through it, just slides his palms over it and moves his hands down to rest on his shoulders, sits back, and lets Spencer just do whatever the fuck he wants.

It's over pretty fast, all things considered, and he squeezes his hands urgently on Spencer's shoulders; Spencer pulls back and Brendon comes spurting into his own fist, shuddering at the force of it.

"Spence," he pants, but Spencer's wiping his hand across his mouth and turning away. There's a faint rustling sound as he rummages his backpack. "Here," he says, shoving a t-shirt at Brendon, "use that," and Brendon wipes his hand on it gratefully.

"So," Spencer says, and Brendon is abruptly conscious that he's sitting shivering on the edge of the bunk, hunched forward so that he doesn't bump his head, and with his underwear pooled around his ankles. "Um."

"I should totally take a picture," Spencer says, "just, like, in case I ever need blackmail material on you."

"Shut the fuck _up_," Brendon says, dropping the t-shirt into his lap, "I hate you," and it's awkward again for a second, until Spencer breaks it by leaning in and kissing him. He tastes different to earlier, and Brendon thinks giddily, _he was sucking my dick_. It makes his stomach twist.

He pulls Spencer back with him into the bunk, rolling back; somehow they manage to both squeeze in there side-by-side, even though Brendon's back is pressed against the wall and Spencer is practically falling out the open side, his back flush with Brendon's stomach.

"Just, just stay here," Brendon says blurrily, one arm curling tight around Spencer's waist, and the other sliding down to where Spencer has his hand on his cock. He helps him jerk off, mouthing Spencer's neck as he makes small, muffled noises, bucking forward into Brendon's hand and back against his cock. Brendon's totally not going to get off again anytime soon, but it still feels good, and he's half-hard again by the time Spencer sighs and comes wetly over their hands.

He lies still for a short while, before scrabbling around for the t-shirt and carefully wiping them clean.

"Hey."

"I have to move," Spencer says. "Before the others come in."

Brendon presses his face into the back of his neck. Spencer's skin smells good, boy and sweat and the faint tang of chlorine. "I know." Neither of them move, though, for a little longer.


End file.
